Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz Tyner

rough nightshirt they’d put on him would definitely please his father. But surely the servants could find something that didn’t bind him so tight.

      Then he forced his eyes wider. He couldn’t get them open enough to see much more than shadows. And a bosom.

      He pushed against the puffed skin that wanted to defeat him. He could see very little of the world except a very delightful view. Two delectable beauties right in front of him. Oh, this was not so terrible. And then they moved. Not in the preferred way, but whisked from his vision.

      ‘Praises be,’ she said, and clasped her hands together, moving so rapidly he could not follow. ‘Your eyes are open.’

      Blast. His lids closed. Blast.

      Then he imagined the sight he’d just seen. The faded and washed fabric, pliable from much use, and exactly the sight he wanted to wake up to. His whole body wanted to wake up to it and did.

      He couldn’t smile. It hurt too much. But if he’d had to be separated into two parts and only one portion functioned, his head or his manhood, well, it had worked out for the best.

      Relief flooded through him, dancing around the memory of the breasts.

      ‘Oh.’ She slid on to the chair at his bedside and reached for a cloth. She daubed it around his face. ‘Don’t let it concern you that your eye twitches. You’ve done that almost every time I speak to you. That’s how I know you hear me.’

      He turned enough that he could see the book in her hands. He lifted his left hand, reaching for it.

      She moved the volume into his grasp and helped him guide it against his body. He clasped it at his side, keeping it in his hand. She’d have to finish the job the cutthroats started to get that book back again. He would not hear one more saintly syllable from it.

      * * *

      Becca watched him. He grasped the book so tight. Her chest fluttered. His discoloured face had made her cringe at first, but now she was used to all the marks and bruises. Her mother had once told her a tale of a woman falling in love with gargoyles and now she could understand how the ladies of the village could tolerate the touches of their rough husbands. They saw through the appearance to the heart underneath.

      She looked at him, clutching the prayer book to his side, holding close what was dear to him.

      Biting her lip, she reached out. She patted his hand and then let her fingers stop over his knuckles. Strong hands, but not roughened with work because he spent his time tending people instead of livestock or fields.

      He kept the book against his side, yet he moved his grasp so that he covered her hand with his, holding their hands resting on the volume. She’d never...been this close to a man before. Well, she had, but this made her breath shaky.

      She took in a gulp of air.

      ‘Are you comfortable?’ she asked, leaning closer.

      He moved his head and didn’t squeeze her hand. The blink of his eyes was a bit long to be anything positive. ‘Well, I guess you couldn’t be. Not with all the injuries.’

      His grasp tightened in agreement and her heart double-thumped. It was just the gratefulness of not having to watch him die. She’d not looked forward to that.

      She moved closer. ‘Do you mind if I talk to you?’

      He pressed her hand, softly.

      This time she couldn’t help giving a return squeeze to his fingers. His hand felt so big compared to hers. She liked that. She put her free hand over their clasp and gently rubbed over his knuckles. The tension in his grip lessened. It didn’t seem like they were strangers any more.

      ‘I’m Rebecca Whitelow. I’m twenty-three. Mother died when I was twenty. I still miss her every day.’ She shrugged the words, almost laughing at herself. ‘Good works. I try to do her good works now. One for each day of the week, except Sunday,’ she whispered. ‘A day of rest.’

      Smoothing the pillow covering at the side of his head, she said, ‘No one knows about my good works, or my day of rest from them. They can’t, or it could hurt their feelings to think it is a duty.’

      She touched the pillow again. ‘I like doing the nice things but I like resting on Sunday, too. It’s my good works for myself.’ Her hand was so near his head that she couldn’t stop herself from smoothing his hair, although truly, it didn’t need to be combed.

      His grip had loosened. She peered at him. He wasn’t asleep, though. He watched her. ‘Father says most people spend so much time waiting for a chance to do something especially wonderful that they overlook little things, like the weeds that might need to be pulled from an elderly neighbour’s garden.’ She wrinkled her nose.

      He listened. She moved closer to his face. He could see her. She could tell. Each time she bent near him his eyes followed her. She could see the tension. The concentration. The struggle.

      ‘Don’t you think it was wise of Father to help me understand the value of small efforts? To show me that goodness is not something to be saved for the biggest battles, but to be used every day?’

      She asked the question to see if the man could give a response.

      His eyes shut.

      One quick pulse of movement at her hand rewarded her. But she didn’t think he quite agreed. ‘Oh, please understand that I’m not trying to ignore the bigger needs.’

      He tapped her knuckles. A reassuring pat, but slow between movements. Much in the same way someone would agree who didn’t really or didn’t at all. Perhaps the way her father might when he wasn’t listening, but wanted to show her he cared about her anyway.

      She ducked her head. ‘I’m not boasting. Forgive me if it sounds that way.’

      She pulled her hand away, but his grip tightened, firm, keeping her in his grasp, but not forcing. His eyes flickered to her.

      A sliding rub down her fingers told her he was pleased. Her heart grew, spreading itself throughout her body, warming it.

      She kept the blossoming hope inside. She’d planned not to marry, ever, unless it was that once with Samuel Wilson. Not that she had a fondness for Sam. But he was sturdy and always attended Sunday Services and was her best choice in the village. And then he’d up and married the bar maid—not that Trudy wasn’t a nice woman, if you liked a certain coarseness and the fact she never laced her boots properly. And she wore her skirts just short enough for it to be noticed. Men seemed to find those unlaced boots quite fetching.

      Rebecca looked at where her own feet were concealed under the folds of her skirt. She’d accepted that her choices in the village were rather dismal for a husband and after Samuel got married they had become almost non-existent. The men were always respectful to her, but they kept their distance, as if she might scold them for speaking roughly. And there weren’t a lot of them of marriageable age who weren’t already married.

      She’d been tending her mother when other people were courting.

      She’d overheard her parents speaking of marriage many times. Her mother had complained to her father that finding a man of good quality was difficult for the young women of the village, particularly with the number of men who’d died fighting Napoleon.

      So many times her mother had cautioned her that in order to continue her good works she must find a man who appreciated the time she spent on giving to others. Only a man devoted to goodness would understand.

      But, well, now she wasn’t certain that her future husband hadn’t been delivered to her doorstep.

      A vicar certainly needed a wife to administer to the women of the village.

      But one shouldn’t put the plates on the table before the vegetables had been planted.

      She opened her mouth, relaxed her voice, then asked, ‘Is there anyone special that we should send for who might need to know of your